


The Curious Incident of the Cat in the Nighttime

by DoubleNegative



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cats, Coitus Interruptus, Crack, Established Relationship, Humor, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Prompt Fic, Sexual Content, The Author Regrets Everything, but not the way you'd think probably, bwp: banter without plot, cats are assholes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 01:05:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6263425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/pseuds/DoubleNegative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times the cat killed the mood and one time she didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curious Incident of the Cat in the Nighttime

1.

“God, I can’t wait to get you inside,” John whispered as Sherlock fumbled for his keys on their front stoop. He crowded up close behind Sherlock, pressing his front along Sherlock’s back, subtly rocking his erection against Sherlock’s arse. Without his thick wool coat--left behind in deference to the warm June evening--to dull the sensation, he felt every inch of John’s length, hot and hard even through both their trousers. “I don’t know if I can even wait to get your clothes off,” he continued and his hand wandered from Sherlock’s hip to spread over the placket of his trousers. He squeezed lightly and Sherlock nearly dropped the keys. John chuckled dark and pleased against his shoulder.

But over the pounding of his pulse and John’s low, steady stream of dirty talk, another sound caught his ear. High and insistent, it stood out from the constant babble of the London streets around them. He strained his ears, and heard it again.

Feline, most definitely. And nearby. By that time, even John had noticed his distraction. “Is that a cat?” he asked. Any question with an answer so obvious was clearly rhetorical, so Sherlock ignored him in favor of following the sound to its source.

Its source turned out to be a diminutive but very vocal tabby-and-white kitten, huddled against the door to Speedy’s and shouting her distress to the world. Sherlock had deleted most of his general cat knowledge after the completion of the Cornish Rex case, but he still felt comfortable estimating the kitten’s age at no more than eight weeks, barely old enough to be away from its mother and the rest of the litter.

“Oh my god,” John said. “It’s so small.” His voice had gone high and breathy in a way that, for once, had nothing to do with Sherlock’s mouth, hands, or cock--indeed, in way that had nothing to do with Sherlock at all.

Sherlock resented the kitten instantly. “It’s so _loud_ ,” he countered.

“Hungry, no doubt,” John said. “And scared. It’s all right, sweetie,” he added, dropping to a crouch and extending his hand to the cat, who sniffed at his fingertips with a deeply suspicious air. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away.

 _Sweetie_? John never called _him_ “sweetie.” Not that Sherlock would want him to; pet names were infantilizing and absurd when they both had perfectly adequate given names, but it was about principles.

 _Sweetie_. Sherlock sniffed. By the time he turned back around, John had coaxed the kitten into his arms, the better to murmur soft endearments. “We can’t leave her out here,” he said. “Not with all this traffic. And look, I can feel all her ribs. Let’s get her inside, and then we can go pick up some food and litter.”

The kitten meowed plaintively from her spot in the crook of John’s elbow. Sherlock glared at her. She stared back, no concern at all in her wide green eyes. “I would be having very enjoyable sex right now if not for you,” Sherlock told her as he swept by. “Just keep that in mind.”

 

2.

“Oh my god,” John gasped. “Oh my-- _Sherlock,_ fuck, yes.” John’s trembling thighs--currently pressed to either side of Sherlock’s head--muffled his voice somewhat, but Sherlock didn’t miss a single word of the filthy litany that spilled from his lips. Sherlock smiled against sensitive, spit-slick skin, and flicked his tongue a little harder against John’s arsehole. John moaned, long and low.

God, the sounds that man could make, richer than any symphony Sherlock had heard. He flicked his tongue against the tight ring of muscle once more, then switched back to the slow teasing circles and lazy licks that drove John mad.

“Jeee- _sus,”_ John said. “Please, _oh_ , please don’t-- Oh, god, no, go away!”

Sherlock popped his head up from between John’s legs as John propped himself up on his elbows. John was panting and damp with sweat, hair mussed, and flushed from forehead to his sternum. He looked _luscious_.

He also looked like he wasn’t paying even the slightest attention to Sherlock, which Sherlock found rather appalling in the circumstances. Sherlock turned to see where John was looking, careful not to dislodge John’s knees where they were hooked over his shoulders.

It wasn’t any surprise at all to see Violet perched atop their dresser, paused in the act of licking her own behind. (And John let her lick _him_ with that tongue; disgusting.) She regarded them steadily for a few more seconds, then resumed her grooming, apparently unconcerned by their proximity or their noise.

Sherlock, for once, decided that she had the right idea and bent back to his own task, rolling one of John’s bollocks against his tongue for the sheer pleasure of watching drop back to the mattress with a ragged moan.

A few more enjoyable moments had passed, and Sherlock had forgotten Violet’s presence entirely, when he felt John push himself back up on his elbows again. “She’s still watching,” John said. “Not even licking herself anymore, just staring. It’s bloody unsettling.”

Sherlock sighed, as various parts of John’s anatomy made it clear just how unsettling he found it. “Can’t you close your eyes?” he said.

“Her eyes are like lasers,” John said. “I can’t perform under that sort of scrutiny.”

“If by ‘perform’ you mean ‘lie back and enjoy it whilst I tongue your arse,’” Sherlock grumbled. He untangled himself from John’s legs and pushed himself to standing. “Fine, we’ll go to your room. And close the door,” he added, shooting another glare at Violet.

Cats had neither the emotional capacity for smugness nor the facial musculature required to express it, Sherlock knew, but damned if Violet wasn’t getting close.

 

3.

“Upstairs?” John gasped, between heated, biting kisses that tasted of adrenaline and rainwater. He had mud on his knees, grit beneath his nails, bruises on his cold skin. Sherlock wanted to lick the powder burns right off John’s fingers, wanted to breathe the London fog right out of his lungs. Sherlock wanted to _devour_ him.

Sherlock shook his head emphatically. “Too far. I need you _now_.” He jerked John’s belt free of the final few loops and flung it over his shoulder, then pushed John’s trousers and pants down his thighs. John made an incoherent, wanting noise and grabbed onto Sherlock’s shoulder for balance. Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist and dragged him close, taking another hard kiss before he pushed John down to the sofa.

John’s eyes flew open as his bare arse made contact with the leather, and his expression changed from pure arousal to pure horror in the space of an instant. “What the fucking _shit_ ,” he yelled, launching himself forward and knocking straight into Sherlock. They both tumbled backwards in a sprawl of partially-clothed limbs.

Sherlock had, prior to that moment, assumed that there would never be a situation in which he wouldn’t be happy to be pinned to the floor with a half-naked John Watson straddling him. Clearly, however, such an assumption indicated a shocking failure of imagination, because if John’s disgusted expression wasn’t enough to ruin the mood, the scent of cat vomit wafting from the sofa was.

John rolled off him, still cursing and gagging, and wiped madly at his bare skin with his discarded trousers. “I will turn that cat into a _casserole_ ,” he muttered furiously. “A fucking casserole, Violet, do you hear me?” he repeated, more loudly this time, scanning the room for the cat.

From her seat atop one of the bookshelves, Violet chirped a cheerful affirmative.

Sherlock sat up slowly, his plans for the evening supplanted by the terrible intersection of charming folk imagery and an eight-pound cat’s lactose intolerance. They had really got to stop Mrs. Hudson giving Violet saucers of milk, no matter how sweet she looked lapping them up.

 

+1.

“Are you sure we packed Violet?” John asked. “I’ve not heard a peep from her all day.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s niece wouldn’t let us leave her behind,” Sherlock said. “I even asked nicely.”

John just rolled his eyes; somehow Sherlock’s habit of napping with Violet had convinced John he was fond of her. She was simply warm, that was all. And her purring didn’t distract from his mind palace. And it wasn’t as though she’d cede her spot on the couch without a fight anyway--an occasional nap time detente seemed in everyone’s best interest.

He relented; the move had been stressful for them both and John’s worry seemed genuine. “She’s in the window seat,” he said. “She’s been there since this morning.”

John smiled fondly. “Poor old girl. I don’t reckon she’s ever seen this much nature in one place before.”

“I’m not sure I have, either,” Sherlock said. “Peril of being a Londoner, I suppose.”

“And now you’re a man of Sussex.” John pushed another box in the direction of the bookshelf and made his way over to Sherlock. “As well as a retired detective, a writer, a chemist, and a beekeeper. And you still find time to be my husband, in spite of all that.” He took Sherlock’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “Lucky me.”

“You’re a sap,” Sherlock said, but it lacked bite, possibly due to the wave of affection he still felt every time the corners of John’s eyes crinkled in that particular way.

“I’m your sap,” John said agreeably. “Now come on, let’s go upstairs christen this place properly. Vi can entertain herself watching the birds; I'd rather entertain myself with you."

**Author's Note:**

> Written in under 24 hours for the "Come at Once" challenge--which is why it's a 3+1 and not a 5+1. The prompt, from redscudery, was "If you don't get rid of that cat there will be trouble." Obviously I didn't work in that precise line, but I think we can all agree that Sherlock said it at least once off-screen.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~more notes later, possibly, when I'm not about to fall asleep.~~
> 
>  
> 
> I've gone through and eliminated some typos and minor formatting errors; that's the only editing I'm likely to do.
> 
> For reference, here's a picture of Violet, aka, my cat Athena, wearing her best judgmental face.  
> 
> 
> and here's my tumblr: [one thousand hurrahs](http://www.onethousandhurrahs.tumblr.com/). The level of discourse you're getting here is about the level of discourse you can expect to get there, tbh.


End file.
